we, the slain menagerie
know the merry maw of progress,
sharply feel your slipping grip
release the broken gear
ours is not the treasured bier,
solemn crypt, or golden urn
secreting a sacred ash;
we have gone to air
you imagine this a boon –
stark anagnorisis;
false in pity, offer forth
a friendship forged in passing
you may not look upon our works,
our paths traverse, or stories read,
yet our Garden names still ring
within the keening clear